


Shatter

by witchkings



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: ALL THE GOOD THINGS, Angst, Fluff, Jaskier being a dramatic bitch as always, M/M, Oral Sex, Smut, Swear Words, a bit of alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:54:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22973623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchkings/pseuds/witchkings
Summary: „Jaskier,“ Geralt said again, his voice full of breath and reverence, his body relaxed, curved into Jaskier‘s. They were on the edge of some nameless town, on the verge of deepest night, on the precipice of transformation. Henceforth, nothing would be like it had been. Not a Witcher and his bard. Not a bard and his Witcher. They‘d separate under words never to be taken back or their trajectories would converge in a manner grand and irreversible. To think of the collateral damage. Jaskier cleared his throat several times before he could untie himself from these thoughts, and speak again.„Take me to bed if your heart so demands it, Witcher. But if it is a whim that guides you, an itch that needs scratching, I beg you, find another.“
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 268





	Shatter

**Author's Note:**

> Soo, I wrote most of this while I was drunk which I wouldn't recommend because it needed a hell of a lot of editing. Left the plot the same though (plot lol). Hope you enjoy! :)

One of these days, Jaskier would succumb to lunacy. It would be a slow submission, like a honey-textured slow waltz at the peak of a grand feast. Like the way he awoke the morning after said feast, when the sun had long risen and the whole world was wrapped in velvet. Full of the very same headaches.

One might suggest upon hearing these terrific comparisons, that Jaskier was being a dramatic little bitch. Geralt said so often, and with hearty conviction, when Jaskier exaggerated colds into pneumonias or a vampire‘s bite into a full-blown transformation.

„You‘re being a dramatic little bitch,“ is what Geralt said and would say even now, if he heard these very thoughts. Only he could never. No.

Jaskier‘s madness was fashioned by and comprised of Geralt. It was all-encompassing, time-consuming, horrible and horrific. It was to be sempiternal and it was to destroy Jaskier‘s life. It was love. Deep-shit, true fucking love.

An ancient predicament, surely, and one he was not unfamiliar with. Love had come to Jaskier over the span of his short life in many a vesture, and he had welcomed every last one of them.

His mother with her cooing laughter as she swirled little Julian around fields of buttercups.

The first boy he had ever kissed with his freckled nose and the constant allergic sneezes that Jaskier had found just so adorable.

The Countess de Stael with her sly smile, always full of inventive spirit.

So yes, Jaskier knew love. But love had never come to him with the prospect of having something to lose should things turn out for the worse.

With Geralt, he had everything to lose. From a simple friendship to legendary epics and all that lay in between. In a matter of months, Jaskier‘s entire life had rearranged itself to revolve around a Witcher and his adventures, and Jaskier would be damned before he gave that up. So there it was then, a slow descent into the land of the crazy. Which was all well and just. Better to face the rest of his years under the burden of love unrequited, than to face them on his own.

Only it was no easy feat to keep this from Geralt when they travelled together. Bathed and slept within inches of one another, and Jaskier was prone to oversharing. His every thought simply leapt from his brain to the tip of his tongue, and off it went into the bubble that was GeraltandJaskier. With filters that often activated only belatedly.

„I mean she was energetic, believe me. Full of fragmented little gasps, the one, but of course she could never compare to-“ he would say, caught in the midst of a spicy rant on some lady‘s virtues, and would have to cut himself short in a manner so abrupt, it made even Geralt rein in and stare at him. All raised eyebrows and mock exasperation in his luminous eyes.

„To what, Jaskier?“

 _To you_ , Jaskier had almost said, _to the version of you that haunts my dreams and has me touching myself at dawn, your name on my lips._

„To the ferocity of a woman in love,“ he said lamely, and spoke no more. So it went.

Mostly, Jaskier managed to keep a hold of himself, or chatter his way out of a careless sentence or two. And it was neither his loose tongue, nor the long nights tucked into the same bedroll, nor the long days tucked against Geralt‘s firm body on Roach‘s back, that held true peril, not by far.

The most dangerous moments were those of quiet lull. When sweet intoxication dulled down his inhibitions, and Geralt was there with him in some inn or other, or next to a fire, equally loose. Serene even. Those nights, it took all of Jaskier‘s will power not to reach over, brush his knuckles over Geralt‘s cheek and spill his guts to very last desire he had tucked away to mull over under the veil of lonesome darkness.

Today was one of those days.

They had successfully wiped out a nest of drowners – well, Geralt had done the wiping while Jaskier had taken notes, and tried not go get, uh, drowned – had taken a long hot bath, and now sat in the corner of their inn. Three tankards of ale into the eve and a silence between them that felt equal parts precious and stifling. Geralt had asked Jaskier about his latest batch of ballads before, all sappy and full of abstract lovers, and Jaskier had shrugged. Had bitten his tongue against the urge to tell Geralt that every last one of them was about him.

Jaskier could write, and had written, endless poems about the perfectly curved muscles of Geralt‘s upper arms, about his dark lashes or his voluptous thighs. About how he wanted those thighs wrapped around his face, Geralt‘s cock shoved down his throat, thrusting – ahem. Jaskier swallowed hard, and dared not to look at Geralt for fear that all these desires would be laid bare under the scrutiny of a Witcher‘s senses and be stripped down for the White Wolf to devour.

„You‘re awfully quiet,“ Geralt commented half a drink later. „More so than seems reasonable.“ His face betrayed no emotion, but the tremble of his voice gave Jaskier the impression of something akin to concern. A product of his own wishful-thinking, of course. Jaskier heard emotion only because he needed it more desperately than any audience. Jaskier would have traded voice and lute in an instant, traded them for the reassurance that Geralt held him dear and, really, he should be ashamed of that. Only he wasn‘t. He was wanting and faint of heart, and Geralt could never know. Never, never, never. Jaskier hoped that the Witcher would interpret the drums in his chest as the fitful aftereffects of an ale too many.

„I‘m just…“ Jaskier trailed off. Buried his face in his hands, and sighed.

„If I didn‘t know better,“ Geralt said, reaching over the table to gently pry away one of Jaskier‘s hands. „I‘d say you‘re pining.“ There it was again, the edge of worry. A taste of salvation.

Well, fuck this. Geralt got him right on the first try, like a fucking magician. Only the easy smile he wore, all teeth and molten amber eyes, told Jaskier that Geralt here hadn‘t grasped the whole story. If he‘d known the direction of Jaskier‘s pining, the extent of it, well. He would kick Jaskier‘s ass all the way to Blaviken.

„It‘s all just… shit.“ When had he gotten this whiny? A dramatic little bitch, and yet Jaskier counted it among one of his greatest talents to make merry of any situation. Here though, in the face of all his troubles, he could not summon cheer to plaster over his sad little visage. Oh, for Melitele to aboslve him.

„Jaskier,“ Geralt said. He still held Jaskier‘s hand firmly in his own, a negligence. The touch had about the same effect as if Jaskier had just chugged an entire jug of wine. His heart stampeded, and his cheeks were aflame. Geralt must have noticed.

„What?“

„Jaskier.“

„Stop saying my name.“ Like that. Like it‘s a treasure chest or a particularly feisty monster with more teeth than brain cells. A slab of chamomile to ease your aching bottom. Like you savor its taste.

„Why?“ Geralt asked. There was mirth in his eyes, not amber anymore, but a firework of sunflowers. His lips quirked upward, and Jaskier‘s stomach gave a jolt. His mouth tingled, not with words unspoken or songs unsung, but with the urge to throw aside the table, climb onto Geralt‘s lap and drink up that smile. Claim every last bit of Geralt‘s mouth as his own. Jaskier‘s cock gave an indistinct twitch. He was way out of his depth. The love he harbored for Geralt was too fucking much to stand up against. And so, Jaskier surrendered.

„Because it is salt to my wounds, fuel for my pining,“ Jaskier said, and downed the last of his ale. This was as good a confession as he would give. Without another word, not a chance for Geralt to reply, he shot out of his seat, and walked out. Into a starry night, and a lonely morrow. Into sorrow, and pain, and heartbreak, and into a world where Jaskier was just Jaskier. Evanescent background noise to a world filled with amibitious musicians and bright scoundrels. Perhaps a nice enough fuck to be remembered.

The cold air hit him like a volley of ice, and from somewhere to his right, Jaskier could hear Roach‘s neighs. As though she could sense his turmoil. He would go over to her, feed her his last cube of sugar, but she smelled like home and that would make him weep.

To Jaskier, no version of this particular tale ended with him by Geralt‘s side. There was too much between them and around them, even if Geralt returned his feelings. There were the mutations and Witcher‘s codes. There were Yennefer and Triss, and other faceless women along the Path. There was Jaskier‘s visceral inability to give in, to share, to let go once something was his. And so, he straightened his doublet, aquaic and flashing just enough chest to be considered scandalous by standards of the Oxenfurt elite, and walked away.

Just Jaskier. No lute, no words, no Witcher to pester. Just Jaskier. Which would be fine, more than enough. Every step hurt like hellfire though, a slow trudge to the gallows. Every raw nerve end in his body screamed to stop. Jaskier stumbled, tarried, walked on. Made it to the edge of town before coarse fingers closed around his wrist and pulled him back.

Jaskier found himself with a mouthful of Geralt‘s shirt as he tumbled against his chest. Strong arms, arms he had dedicated sonnets to, wrapped around him. The tension left Jaskier‘s body and he melted against hard muscle and soft-spoken words.

„Why would you run away from me?“ Geralt asked, his voice a rumble of thunder against Jaskier‘s cheek. Low and loud to fill the rapidly quieting night as lights around them extinguished and the shuffle of townsfolk ceased with the closing of doors. If Jaskier strained his imagination, only a tad inward, he almost felt like it was just the two of them, bathed in lunar brilliance and destinged to be together. All the world was empty except for their frantically beating hearts. Oh, the ballads Jaskier could feel form in the back of throat, the melancholy chords. It was a fantasy he would have readily chucked away on any other occasion. This time, however, Geralt had followed him, and that felt like a bridge between the imaginary and the real.

„I‘m not much of a runner,“ Jaskier said. It wasn‘t what he‘d wanted to say, but he was weak-spirited what with the alcohol coursing through him.

„Hmmm.“ A long stretch of silence, Geralt‘s fingers in his hair, massaging his scalp. Jaskier shuddered as hot lips pressed against his forehead. This, even to him, seemed unmistakable.

„Fine,“ he said. „I‘d reckoned myself in the face of rejection and wanted no part of it. Better to simply walk out on you.“

„Oh, Jaskier, my stupid, dramatic and absolutely beautiful bard. Had you but spoken the word, I would have been yours for the taking. To serenade and worship as you pleased,“ Geralt said, and these words were more to Jaskier than any applause or praise. They hit the notes of his soul exactly, and yet were so unexpected from the mouth of one so solemn and quiet. Who never wasted time on feeble emotions. Geralt had never sounded more earnest.

„You speak in terms of the past,“ Jaskier said weakly, and inwardly cursed himself. Why was he still sabotaging himself? The evidence was more than clear. „Have I missed my chance then?“

„No,“ Geralt murmured. „Never.“

Jaskier was at a loss. The mountain between him and comprehension jutted too high for him to clamber over. The implications, far-reaching and short escaped him. Did this mean Geralt reciprocated his feelings? Or was he merely offering Jaskier a night to fuck his feelings out? Not that that would work, of course, but either way Jaskier was too weak, too wanting to say no, say yes, say anything. So, he stayed quiet and buried his face against Geralt‘s neck. Scents of leather and lemon and, underneath, the hunt, wild and bloody. A million fireflies ignited in Jaskier‘s chest and fluttered around. He glowed. His hands came up to clutch at Geralt‘s shirt which was stiff from wear.

„Jaskier,“ Geralt said again, his voice full of breath and reverence, his body relaxed, curved into Jaskier‘s. They were on the edge of some nameless town, on the verge of deepest night, on the precipice of transformation. Henceforth, nothing would be like it had been. Not a Witcher and his bard. Not a bard and his Witcher. They‘d separate under words never to be taken back or their trajectories would converge in a manner grand and irreversible. To think of the collateral damage. Jaskier cleared his throat several times before he could untie himself from these thoughts, and speak again.

„Take me to bed if your heart so demands it, Witcher. But if it is a whim that guides you, an itch that needs scratching, I beg you, find another.“

„Oh, Jaskier.“ Geralt had to stop saying that. It should have been Jaskier who uttered Geralt‘s name like a poem, a prayer. Like the first and last lines to every song he would ever write. But he couldn‘t. Could only yelp in surprise as Geralt bent to swoop Jaskier up, into his arms. Laughter ringing louder than ever before, carefree. Affectionate, as Jaskier flailed, and Geralt pulled him closer. Retracing his earlier steps, back into the town, the inn, and up, up, until a door slammed shut.

This isn‘t real, Jaskier thought. This is bound to shatter.

Jaskier landed on a mattress that, for once, didn‘t poke rashes into his back. Geralt stood above him, casting long shadows in the light of the dying embers. There was, as was so often the case with this particular Witcher, an unreadable expression on his face. A tightness in his cheeks, a muscle that shifted along the curve of his jawbone. His eyes though. All gods of the holy pantheon, but the way they raked along Jaskier‘s body stole his breath.

„Well?“ Jaskier asked with a heavy gulp. He could feel himself unravel, crown to toe, one giant mess of strings for Geralt to pick apart, pluck, and play. Jaskier crossed his arms over his chest, and Geralt sighed. Sitting down by his side, the Witcher first unlaced his, then Jaskier‘s boots, and lay down next to him. Positively snuggled up to Jaskier‘s side and pulled him clos. Head to chest once more. Their thighs interlocked, their hips jotted into place against each other. Geralt‘s giant body heaved another sigh, and then he was still. Lips grazed Jaksier‘s earlobes. His eyes fluttered shut.

„Melitele only knows how badly I want to strip you down, and fuck you senseless, and devour every last moan from your lips right now,“ Geralt murmured, and lightning shot down Jaskier‘s spine. His cock twitched, and yet, there was this rock in his throat. „And from the spike of hormones in your bloodstream I can tell you want the same thing. And still, your fingers shake against my heartbeat. Tell me, Jaskier, what is it that makes you so anxious?“

„To have you for one night only would break me, Geralt. And I am afraid that I am no good for more than that.“ Though Jaskier would be damned if he wasted this chance. If Geralt let him, he would make their time together unforgettable.

„You asked me to refrain from touching you if my heart was not in it, and yet here we are. My fingers burn with the need, they have for a long time now. But I didn‘t dare take what wasn‘t blatantly given, I don‘t even now. Rest assured, bard, that one night with you would never be enough. Not with the hunger that posesses me.“ Geralt‘s hand wandered down the small of Jaskier‘s back, and slipped under his shirt. Coarse fingers rubbed against his vertebrae, elicting shudders from Jaskier‘s frame. There was a war inside of him and Jaskier was determined to see it won.

Geralt may be a brazen man, rough, even hurtful at points. But Jaskier had never known him to deceitful. Never known him to want to hurt. Jaskier had to besiege his own heart, had to tear down the carefully built wall of control stone by stone. Until the groundwork shattered apart and all his inhibitions came apart.

He tilted his chin up, cerulean eyes meeting sunburst ones. Geralt met him halfway, and their lips pressed together not in an explosion of despair, but with a soft whimper on Jaskier‘s side and a shaky exhale on Geralt‘s. Soon enough, they collided, Geralt half on top of Jaskier, his hand still giving sparks of pleasure as it roamed over Jaskier‘s backside, as rough fingers traced his ribs, as a warm palm covered his heartbeat.

Geralt‘s lips were equally warm and gentle as they moved with Jaskier‘s, a small nibble of teeth and Jaskier fell apart with a gasp. As his own hand found its way into hair like molten moonlight, Geralt‘s tongue licked into his mouth, found Jaskier‘s and coaxed it into a dance. Slow, lazy swirls on a dance floor that was entirely their own, to music magical and unheard of. Jaskier felt drunker than he had in weeks, his body temperature risen. Something in his chest tore free, a feral hunger, a beast not even Geralt would stand a chance against.

This wasn‘t enough. This barely fit the bill of a heated making out. They fit perfectly against each other and still couldn‘t get close enough. Maybe this wasn‘t bound to shatter after all, but Jaskier was, if he didn‘t get to feel Geralt‘s skin against his own and real fucking soon.

He broke their kiss and nuzzled Geralt‘s neck. Planted angry, teethy kisses at the base of it. A needy growl escaped him and Geralt hummed a question mark. Already, Jaskier could feel the hard press of the Witcher‘s cock against his thigh, his own in a constant strain against too tight breeches.

„Shirts,“ Jaskier said, and his voice souded too raw for his own comfort. „Off.“

“Has eloquence finally forsaken you?” Geralt chuckled, but complied. He kissed Jaskier’s temple before disentangling himself long enough to take off his own shirt and free Jaskier of doublet and undershirt. Geralt‘s chest was broad and scar-ridden and one day Jaskier would take the time to trace his lips along every last one of them, compose each an ode and worship Geralt‘s body into holiness. One day. Now, all he could manage was to wrap his arms around Geralt‘s waist and slam their bare torsos together. One long line of untamed, hot skin to skin contact. It grounded Jaskier enough to realize he was babbling.

„...so fucking beautiful, and ever since I realized that, a day hasn‘t gone by that I was not eaten alive by my want for you. You‘re a fucking star, Geralt. Blinding, brilliant, far away and yet so close. You guide me and I want you all for myself, shit, I just want... I mean I need... Shit.”

Jaskier reclaimed Geralt’s lips, all teeth and tongue this time, giving the Witcher no ground. He rolled them over, and Geralt let him, until Jaskier straddled Geralt’s thighs, until their erections were lined up, until he could lean down, let his hands roam and take, take, take. Geralt moaned when Jaskier rocked his hips and grabbed the bard’s ass, pulled him forward again, and again, until they both gasped into each other’s mouths, gasping and spluttering curses. Jaskier nipped at Geralt’s jaw and stilled. His hand wandered lower, traced the lines of Geralt’s abdominal muscles which had the Witcher’s breath skip, traced his hipbones and the faint dusting of fair hair that disappeared into his breeches.

„What do you need, Jask?“ Geralt panted. His hands were in Jaskier‘s hair, pulling in all the right directions. They kissed again, a ferocious battle for dominance until Jaskier‘s fingers slipped into Geralt‘s breeches and skittered along the underside of his cock, and Geralt relinquished all control in favor for a guttural grunt. Jaskier grinned. He felt aloof, giddy, full with happiness where before there had been so much anxiety, felt like he was bound to gravity only by the weight of his own lust. He did quick work on the lacings of Geralt‘s breeches which allowed his hand the full range of motion. Long fingers to wrap around the base of Geralt‘s cock and move up in languish, lazy strokes. Just the right amount of pressure. A kiss that had Geralt‘s lips look shiny and raw.

„Fuck, your hands are wasted on a lute,“ Geralt said, and his grip on Jaskier‘s bottom tightened. Jaskier‘s own erection was still restrained, trapped between Geralt‘s thigh and himself, but the groans he drew from Geralt‘s lips with harsh flicks of his wrist were enough to drive him out of his fucking mind. He felt the front of his breeches go wet from his leaking cock.

„I want you in my mouth," Jaskier said, and slid down Geralt's body with wet, open-mouthed kisses to any inch of skin he could reach. Geralt's hips bucked when Jaskier's breath ghosted over the head of his cock, that was still in Jaskier's firm grip. He let go and steadied himself on Geralt's thigh. All the world, for this moment. To have Geralt look at him the way he did, all wide-eyed pleas and flushed cheeks. It seemed even Witcher's could become the victims of hormonal chain reaction.

Jaskier raised an eyebrow, waited for Geralt's harsh nod, and then lowered himself, lips parting around Geralt's cock. It tasted of salt and that same note of wilderness Geralt always carried with him. He moved slowly, tongue swirling around the head, let himself have this feast he had dreamed of for so long. Jaskier nearly rutted into the mattress at all the beautiful, brutal sounds Geralt made.

„Oh fuck,“ Geralt moaned. „It‘s not just your hands that are wasted on music.“ Jaskier hummed a tune against Geralt and sucked harshly before letting off with a pop. „Don‘t stop, asshole.“ Curses that set Jaskier alight. In any other situation, he would have been offended, hurt even. But with Geralt‘s cock against his lips it was pure ecstasy.

„Remember this, Witcher,“ he said. „Remember the feeling of my mouth and let it be a curse to you every time I perform.“

„You cheeky bastard. Didn‘t seem that smug just a moment ago.“

„True. But a lot has changed since then,“ Jaskier drawled, and made to move back but Geralt‘s hands were in his hair again, gloriously tugging, and he pushed Jaskier down. Jerked his hips up to meet him halfway and, oh, yes, that was the kind of response Jaskier had gambled for. One long thrust had Geralt‘s cock buried in the warm confines of Jaskier‘s mouth again, another had him hit the back of Jaskier‘s throat with his head. Jaskier‘s eyes watered and he gagged a little. Not enough to be concerning, to discourage Geralt. Jaskier could do naught but take Geralt‘s cock, his harsh treatment. He employed his tongue where possible, sucked and moaned through the ordeal. Geralt‘s sharp grunts pushed him closer to his own release.

Please, he thought, please. Please come for me, Geralt, please come screaming my name. And for the love of Melitele, please let me do this again. Jaskier opened his eyes, tightened his grip on Geralt‘s thighs. Caught Geralt‘s gaze over the endless plane of flushed skin and bumpy scars.

Geralt was in a state, almost as disheveled as Jaskier himself must look. White hair tousled and wild, eyes hazy with lust. Teeth exposed in a snarl.

„Jaskier.“ He thrust again, and Jaskier didn‘t waver. Geralt‘s movements got more jagged, frantic. Uncontrolled.

„Jaskier. Jaskier, please,“ Geralt groaned and Jaskier sucked and swallowed. His eyes still interlocked with Geralt‘s.

„Jask.“ Jaskier winked and Geralt‘s whole body convulsed as he came hard, hot seed spilling down Jaskier‘s throat in long bursts. Jaskier dutifully swallowed it all, and when Geralt‘s hold on him weakened, he licked Geralt clean, sucked lightly through the afterwaves of the Witcher‘s orgasm.

Only when Jaskier crawled back into Geralt‘s arms and their lips met, lazy and sweet, did his attentions return to his own desire, still hard and aching. Geralt was jelly in his arms, all soft exhales and overheated limbs, and Jaskier was about to take care of it himself. Too desperate to withhold his want.

„Let me,“ Geralt said and placed Jaskier‘s hand against his own cheek, while his wandered down. With their chests pressed together, their tongues sliding against one another, Geralt tore open Jaskier's breeches and wrapped his hand around him. Jaskier shuddered, he whimpered, he kissed even harder. Geralt's hand was a heavenly blessing, strong but not rough. Later, much later, Jaskier would blush at this, but it took all of five strokes, accompanied by Geralt's tongue licking into his mouth, for Jaskier to come. He whimpered again. Then collapsed against Geralt, basking in the glow of a perfect orgasm. Geralt wiped his hand on the bed sheet, then embraced him once more.

"Fuck me," Jaskier groaned.

"Hmm... next time."

"That better be a promise, my dear. Like I told you-"

"Yes, yes," Geralt said and kissed Jaskier's head. "I wouldn't want to shatter your fragile heart. Have you ever thought that I harbor the same fears?"

"No, not really. Do you?"

"Sometimes."

"And what do you do to deal with them?" Jaskier raised his head and was met with a crinkled skin around glowing eyes. Red lips that curled in a honey smile.

"I think of all the times you could have turned your back on me. Called me a monster and ran for the hills."

"I'd never do that."

"I know," Geralt said, and his eyes fell shut. Contention was written all over his features, and a yawn stole up on Jaskier at the sight. He let go of the tension in his body, that which remained anyway, and let Geralt's heat pull him under.

"Jask?"

"Mmh yes, love?"

"Does this mean your ballads were about me after all?"

"Fuck off."

"Hmm."

  
  



End file.
